The B-52s
Cosmic Thing

If the lingering effects of this scorching summer are still clouding your mind and a sad halo of liquid infused with sodium chloride and pyruvic acid is swelling around your neck, if you're not yet wondering how much pain Ozzy experienced from the rabies shot after his bat bite in Des Moines or aren't searching with a mirror for other signs of McCartney's alleged death on the cover of "Sgt. Pepper," neglecting books and dogs that disqualify each other (inside dogs, notoriously too dark to read), perhaps, in a mystical impulse, transcendent sweat permitting, you could let the laser beam of your player play the third most beautiful album by the B-52's. The party-band born in 1977 in a Chinese restaurant but which, soon after, would hardly look out of place at CBGB's!

The B-52s are the Boeing Stratofortress that dropped all that damn napalm on Vietnam. B-52 are the teased, heavily lacquered hairstyles that went far beyond the soft hairstyles of Brigitte Bardot. The B-52 is a cocktail made up of three distinct layers of Kahlúa, Bayles, and Grand Marnier. But the B-52's are primarily the first band from Athens, Georgia, an attractive hub for art students in the Southern United States. They preceded Pylon and R.E.M. in a very creative scene!

Their post-punk, surf, and psychobilly blend decanted into a surreal, bright, and nervous pop dance that lavishly mirrored, with passion, Leeds' Gang of Four and New York's schmoozing Talking Heads and, with interest, the dissonances of Ohio's Devo and the "metro (pop) music" from Canadian group Martha and the Muffins. Purveyors of innovative taste in rhythms, sounds, and snipe hunts, they devoted all their quirky hysteria and mischievous naivete towards playful, ironic, even crazy danceability of a carefree yet somehow raw and menacing sound. The silly and histrionic proclamations of Fred Schneider are countered by the irresistible glamorous duets and two-tone choruses of Kate Pierson and Cindy Wilson, their lively vocal harmonies parodying female groups like Shangri-Las and Ronettes, but with a rock flair and class instead of coquetry. Then there are the garage/punk guitar riffs of Ricky Wilson and the syncopated drumming of Keith Strikeland. Completing the sound is the hammering Farfisa organ. The kitsch image, evident in the plasticized outfits not far removed from B horror movies, does not harm the more generously iconic aspect of the Athens band, strong with ideas like rock lobster and naive lyrics aimed at mocking 50's and 60's mass society clichés. The debut album, with its robotized funky rhythms and dry chords, is one of the masterpieces of new wave. The second "Wild Planet" is a splendid record, less unpredictable but equally enjoyable in its escape from nihilism. Then they gained in intelligence (Byrne) but lost in inspiration. Tragedy also loomed: Ricky Wilson died of AIDS in October 1985, working on what would be the disappointing “Bouncing Off Satellites.”

Then a jolt. We're at "Cosmic Thing" (Reprise, 1989). The album marks exactly a recovery, with teeth and character. In the production booth are Nile Rodgers and Don Was who evenly split the recordings. On bass, there's a delightful guest: Sarah Lee from the much-loved Gang of Four. Strikeland politely moves to guitar, Pierson also dabbles on keyboards, and Schneider finally returns to having fun with his bold humorous rants. If you focus on what's there rather than what's missing, it results in a good album of dance-rock and contemporary pop/rock style, that is a pleasure to listen to. And come on, one can acquiesce to that renewed trash aesthetic that at least displaces the golden eighties patina of its immediate predecessor! It may not have artistic peaks, okay, but at least a certain vigor seems to return. And Wilson and Pierson's choruses make songs pleasurable that couldn't pass through other mouths, lest they drop like gum to the ephemeral ground of indifference. Their harmonies, a kind of Hawaiian mantra, as well as Pierson's specific warbles, always thrill. They have that certain je ne sais quoi. They are like mink on Doris Day's skin.

So the ten tracks of the album can certainly existentially fuel our solar panels. The counter-injunction guide is the cry "Shake your honeybuns!" "Shake it till the butter melts", leaving behind asphalt vapors assuming out-of-body experiences ("Cosmic Thing") to sober yet ecstatic awakenings of all senses, facilitated by coffee hums, sweet rolls, and cheap beer ("Deadbeat Club"). Having dodged wildfires ("Bushfire"), we find ourselves in a car big as a whale's belly taking the new prophets in the right direction ("Love Shack", the same ideal line connecting the anthemic "Rock Lobster" to the dance-psychedelic rock of "Private Idaho"). Then we travel on the tail of a kiss ("Roam") and in the air spreads a taste of honey ("Topaz").

And then? Pierson sings for Iggy Pop in "Brick by Brick" and for R.E.M. in "Out of Time" (proverbial the dead hand of Iggy, self-directed that of Stipe), Cindy leaves then returns, three meanwhile record "Good Stuff", perform for Jerry Brown (democratic presidential candidate in 1992), appear in the Flintstones movie, support AIDS fight, embrace animal welfare causes, Schneider ventures into "Comedy Synthpop" aided by S. Albini, they return to record together in 2008 changing the name slightly (dropping the pink apostrophe), lend their voices to various animated characters (Rugrats, Phineas and Ferb). But there’s no rush to move away from the discreet happiness of "Roam" and "Deadbeat Club", from the accomplished musicality of these new wave exiles' vocals. Whether you prefer them creamier or more skimmed, you'll be genuinely refreshed anyway. So calm down. Siesta. The vile summer is ending. Stay here. Let's continue to hate Illinois Nazis and love Athens bands like old wistful pigeons.